Balfour Three
by SplatDragon
Summary: Cal and Charlotte had hoped for a quiet life. A life where they lived off the land, only relied on their animals and each other. Instead, though, they found themselves almost killed by the Murfree Brood, saved by a wandering outlaw. They'd never heard of an outlaw saving people before, only robbing and killing them. But she had, and they had to repay her somehow.
1. The outlook is dire

They were going to die.

Two weeks, they'd only been out in their new home for two weeks, and they were going to die. They wanted a new life, a life away from the city and its indulgences, its waste. A life where they only needed each other, ate only what they could grow and hunt and raise, live off the land.

They hadn't even gotten started, and now it would end.

"Stay down!" Cal barked, and she did, huddling beside him behind the crate. They were cornered, the Brood surrounding them, Cal keeping her pressed against the side of their house, making sure she was as protected as she could get. He was trying, bless him, but he barely knew how to use a gun, and the shots flew wide.

He cursed, and ducked down, reloading as a Murfree cackled, the wall above her head exploding in a rain of splinters. Cal roared, pulling her under him as he twisted to fire the gun again, a strangled cry of pain showing that he had finally managed to land a shot.

"You'll die for that!" one of the Brood shrieked back, and the others laughed in agreement.

"You and your bitch!" another echoed, and Cal ducked down, the crate trembling as a bullet barely missed him, pressing a kiss to her forehead in an attempt at reassurance before fumbling to reload his gun. Charlotte wished, desperately, that she had a gun, but she was an even worse shot than Cal and would likely only make it worse.

"We'll kill her second, ma-hnk!" the cackling voice cut off with the crack of a gun and a harsh _ thud_, and Charlotte looked up at Cal. But he looked as startled and confused as she was; gunfire broke out, but none at _ them_, so they dared to look over the crate.

The Brood were scattering, ducking behind crates and fencing as they fired at a woman atop a white horse. Two lay dead, one staggering and covered in blood, and as they watched she flung herself from her saddle and sent the horse running, shooting all the while. She bolted across their yard, vaulting over a crate not far from them. Splinters showered over her head as she ducked down, reloading her rifle, tilting her head towards them. Catching their eyes, she nodded in acknowledgement and mouthed 'stay down'.

They were more than happy to, of course, Cal ducked down and curling over her, tucking her head under his chin. His hand trembled, but he refused to let go of the gun for fear of one of the Brood getting to them, of the woman being overpowered. She seemed, though, more than capable of holding her own. The woman moved easily, popping up to fire over the crate, dropping down to avoid the bullets that covered her with splinters before twisting to shoot around the corner. Broods were dropping like flies, crying out in pain as she put them down. The sound of gunfire had lessened dramatically, only a few guns left to fire, and for a moment Cal and Charlotte allowed themselves to relax, hope to bloom in their chests. Cal's arms tightened around her as he pressed a kiss to her hairline.

She dropped down, and stayed down, taking a long moment to reload her gun. Only a handful of Murfree remained standing, some of their kin writhing on the ground, others attempting to stagger away before collapsing. The woman cursed in a fashion that left Charlotte blushing and Cal feeling vaguely scandalized, before tossing the rifle aside and drawing the shotgun from her back.

She jolted up, firing a shot that obliterated the chest of one of the Murfree, the man gurgling as he dropped. Dropping back down, she cocked the gun, slipping to the side. Her gun cracked, felling one of the last few Murfree, before she was flung back in a spray of blood, lips parting in a silent scream. Hitting the ground with a thud, her gun slipped from her fingers, and she curled in on herself, gripping her sides. The two remaining members of the Brood ran forward, shouting in furious glee, and Cal gripped the gun, leaning up and aiming as carefully as he could. More through luck than any skill did the bullets land, hitting one in the throat and the other in the stomach.

It was quiet, aside from the men's dying moans and the woman's pained gasps, but Cal held her to him for a long moment. His hand shook on the gun, and he feared more of the Brood showing up.

A minute passed, then two, and only a vulture had come. Finally, Cal told Charlotte to "Stay down!" and stood slowly, swinging the gun around warily. There was movement, near their broken down gate, and his heart leapt to his throat; he spun, aiming and preparing to fire, but it was only the woman's horse, plodding forward curiously now that the gunfight was over. _ 'Damned beast',_ he thought, bringing his hand to his chest, finding some amusement in the thought that he had almost dropped dead of a heart attack after only just surviving a vicious attack. The horse only looked at him, whickering as though laughing before lowering its head to graze, unbothered by the scent of blood and death in the air.

Finally, pacing the length of their property, Cal decided that it was as safe as it was going to get. There didn't seem to be any more of the Brood around, and the only danger would be scavengers or predators drawn by the corpses. So he turned to Charlotte, nodding, and she stood slowly, wiping the dirt off of her dress. There was still fear, of course, a great deal of it, but if they waited until they were no longer afraid then they would be out there until well gone dark.

As Cal continued to look around, chasing off the vultures, Charlotte approached the woman. She was still on the ground, sides heaving but eyes shut. Her hand clenched convulsively on the shotgun, opening and shutting over and over in an unconscious movement, and she showed no signs of being aware of Charlotte when she knelt down beside her.

Carefully, Charlotte reached forward to pull her hand away from the wound, stomach churning at the sight of it. There was a great, gaping crater in her side, meat pocked and ribs visible. She heaved, covering her mouth as she leaned away, unable to avert her gaze from the horrendous sight. Cal approached behind her, the vultures chased away, at least for the moment, his own stomach churning at the sight—it looked like a deer shot with the wrong weapon, a rabbit blasted apart with a shotgun.

"Cal," Charlotte spoke up, forcing her hand away from her mouth, swallowing down bile, "she saved our lives." and he knew where she was going with this, and there had already been no question about it,

"I know," he said, stooping down to pick her up. Carefully, he removed her fingers from the gun, Charlotte picking it up without prompting, careful to keep well away from the trigger, before wrapping his arms under her knees and her shoulders, careful not to jostle her as he straightened up. Even still, she moaned in pain, the sound a low croak in her throat, spasming slightly in his arms. He tightened his grip, turning on his heel to take her back into their cabin before he could hurt her further. Charlotte hurried at his heels, already trying to remember where their first aid kit was, the whisky and her sewing kit and their rags. Cal could move the corpses later (and they both shuddered at the thought that they had, unknowingly, shared), and she could stable the woman's horse once she had been tended to.

They owed her their lives, after all. What was the cost of some medical supplies, some hay, in return?


	2. But which side are you on?

As carefully as he could, Cal set the woman down on their bed, but still she groaned, tensing in pain and arching off the bed, reaching up to fumble at the wound but Cal grabbed her hands and pinned them to the bed and she stopped without much of a fight, not quite conscious.

Charlotte bustled around behind him, cupboards clattering, calling out "Grab the whiskey," and so he did with blood-covered hands, gulping down a mouthful before catching her disapproving eye and setting it down.

She set her armful down on the edge of the bed, looking the woman over. "Help me get her undressed," and though he flushed he did as he was told, helping to prop her up as Charlotte removed, first, her bandolier, then her guns, setting them aside as she pulled off her belts, then worked to unbutton her jean jacket as carefully as she could, mindful of the fibres that had been forced into the wound, Cal helping her to pull it off. Then was the shirt, the sight of the hole in it leaving them both cringing, and it took more time than she'd like to peel it out of the wound, more and more blood pooling as she worked.

They were starting to think they were about to watch a woman die.

Charlotte wasn't squeamish. And neither was Cal.

But they both had to take breaks as Cal held the woman down on the bed, as Charlotte poured whiskey over the wounds and blue-green eyes snapped open as she arched up with breathless sounds of pain, as she stitched shut what of the wound she could, wrapped what she couldn't. By the time she was done, they were both covered in blood, the woman unconscious, face lined deep. Her breath smelled faintly of the whiskey—Cal had tilted the bottle to pour some down her throat, as they didn't have anything else that could act as a painkiller, and he adjusted her as Charlotte stripped the bloodied bedding, putting a blanket on top of her when she saw her shivering.

They left her to rest, heading outside among the rotting corpses to use the pump to wash themselves off, though they'd need to take baths later, probably give the woman a wipe down as well considering that most of her skin was filthy, but for the moment they just wanted to wipe themselves down and take a moment to catch their breaths. The horse grazed, thoroughly unbothered, as though this were a daily occurance, and considering the scars they'd seen on the woman it wouldn't be much of a surprise.

"So,"

"So."

They shared a look, eyes wide, adrenaline leaving their hearts thrumming in their veins. They'd begun the day intending on starting their garden, and now the sun was only just beginning to set and they had a woman, bleeding, maybe dying, laying on their bed, nearly twenty corpses rotting in their yard.

Which, Cal remembered, he still needed to take care of. What _do_ you do with wild-person corpses?

"I'll take care of the corpses," he said to Charlotte, "If you put away her horse." They had a single horse of their own, one that was too lazy to care about sharing its rather-small barn with some woman's horse.

Charlotte nodded, leaving him to puzzle over what to do with all the corpses as she approached the horse.

Close up, she realized he wasn't as big as she'd thought at first, couldn't have been much more than fifteen hands, but he was wide and bulky, making it easy to think that he was much larger. The Andalusian raised his head when she neared, giving her a wary look that had her hesitating, before seeming to decide that she was no threat and going back to his grazing.

"Easy," she murmured, approaching the horse, but he didn't react, allowing her to take his bridle and lift his massive head. He blinked at her slowly, still chewing his mouthful of grass, and plodded after her obediently when she took his reins in hand and led him to the small barn (more of a shed, really) that they kept their cart horse in, patting him on the shoulder.

With Browny in there, it would be a tight fit, but it was shelter and he'd have food and water, so it would hopefully be good enough. Browny was getting on in years and wouldn't mind sharing, and she could only hope that this scarred horse would agree.

And they did. She gave them a moment to greet one another, ears perking and nickering lowly, before Browny gave a sigh and dropped his head, going back to his favorite activity: napping. Charlotte patted the horse she led whose name she didn't know on the neck, murmuring a "Good boy," and leading him to the biggest open space in the small stable, offering him an apple from the sack they kept for Browny as she went to work making a pile of hay for him to eat—they didn't have an extra trough, unfortunately.

Stripping his tack was… oddly terrifying. Six sidearms, two shotguns, three longarms she couldn't identify, and a bow—what type of person needed so many weapons? The optimistic side of her said bounty hunter, but somehow she got the feeling that the woman wasn't something quite so lawful. A nasty looking knife was found in one of his saddlebags, as well as what she was pretty sure were several vials of poison along with what she was sure was more tonics than she'd seen in her life, and several of the herbs she'd seen in the saddlebags she knew were poisonous. One of the saddlebags she'd set aside as carefully as she could, having found dynamite and several vials that she had a feeling were explosive from the way grains had settled at the bottom, and several others smelled strongly of alcohol, cloth poking out from around their stoppers.

What kind of person had they brought into their home?


	3. but the wound was already infected

_I'm doing ev'rything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived_  
~Stay Alive (Reprise), Lin-Manuel Miranda, Anthony Ramos, Phillipa Soo

The woman woke, half out of her mind, the next day.

"Wh'skey," was the first thing she'd said and, well, she _was _the rough and tumble sort and surely she was in a lot of pain, so Cal had tried to press the lip of the bottle to her mouth but she'd pulled her head away, eyes darting this way and that, "Where's… where's Whiskey?" and tried to stand, crying out in pain when Charlotte had hurried over to help him wrangle her back into bed.

Charlotte had gotten an idea then, just the barest spark, when again the woman had nearly violently rejected the bottle, shoving Cal away with a strength one wouldn't expect from her slight frame, leaning forward and pressing a hand against her shoulder, "Ma'am, _ma'am!" _and her eyes had darted to her as though startled, as though she hadn't, only moments before, been fighting against Charlotte, "Your horse is fine, ma'am. He's in the barn with ours, he's resting."

And thank god, but the two had gotten along just fine. For a moment she'd feared that he and Toffee might fight, hearing a horse scream in the barn, but instead she'd found them stood nearly side by side, a rat dead in the hay and the woman's horse with blood on its face. Though it seemed a vicious thing, he had been happily grooming Toffee, and Toffee had been too lazy to care that he was having blood smeared along his flank.

She seemed to have found the right thing to say as the woman settled, the lines in her face easing as she slumped down into the bed, breathing heavily against her pain. Charlotte was quick to send Cal off to retrieve some of their pain medicine, the woman eyeing it suspiciously before downing the tonic once she seemed to recognize it - miracle tonic, nothing more, something Charlotte had seen plenty of in that horrid satchel of hers, fussing before allowing them to check the wounds.

They looked something awful, clearly painful, reddish around the edges and Cal frowned, gorge rising into his throat; even through the miracle tonic's haze, the woman yelled her pain as they cleaned the wounds and wrapped them back up.

She woke the second day with a fever. The redness had spread, and she whimpered pitifully when they unwrapped and re-wrapped them. Her words were somehow quieter than before, slurred and hardly understandable, though even still she asked after her horse twice, only reassured when, while Charlotte was helping her outside to relieve herself, she saw 'Whiskey' grazing in their little paddock.

Cal was starting to really like Whiskey. The horse, that is, not the drink. The perlino, mean-looking and scarred as he was, was more than happy to lean into a scratch, was gentle as anything accepting a treat from him.

By the third day, she was delirious with it, and Cal rode to town for the doctor.

The man was solemn, thoroughly unbothered by the tears that trickled hot down her face when they manipulated her so as to help him access her wounds, though a deep scowl set upon his lips when he saw red lines streaking from them. Many of the folk he'd seen who'd survived Murfree attacks, he told them, tended to die some time later from infection - they were _filthy, _even moreso than most, and so was their ammunition - they hadn't removed the bullets, hadn't removed the filth that covered the metal, leaving it to fester inside her.

Infection had set in fierce, pus soaking his hands to the wrist, the wound opening readily even as he only cut the bandaging, soaked through with blood.

He'd offered to take her back to his clinic - warned them, though, she probably wouldn't make the trip. _'You'll need a strong stomach,' _he'd said, throwing Charlotte a less-than-subtle look. But the woman had saved their lives and, even if she hadn't, they weren't about to send a woman off to die just because it was going to be a little gross.

A little gross, as it turned out, was an understatement.

A _gross _understatement.

The doctor called it 'wound irrigation'. They'd call it torture. _'I have to get the infection out.' _

He cut the stitches, worked through seeping pus and oozing blood to pull out the bullets - little, tiny things that didn't seem half so capable of causing so much damage, leaving them to clatter into a bowl.

The doctor made them wash up while he got out his supplies - buckets and blades, a tube and some cloth. And not just with water, they were made to wash up to their elbows with 'medical grade' alcohol, the scent sharp and pungent in their noses.

And then they'd tortured her.

Charlotte had been made to sit on her legs to pin her, the woman adjusted to lay on her side so the infection would drain into the bucket. And even still, as the woman began to scream something guttural, a sound they'd heard not even in the most grievously injured animal, she was nearly thrown, nearly knocked to the ground, the woman thrashing and fighting for her life, eyes glazed with fever darting this way and that, choked pleas tearing from her throat as the doctor cut deep into her stomach.

She punched Cal, once. Probably would have hurt him badly, too, but she was more desperate to get _away _than to hurt so, though his head snapped back he managed to, if only barely, maintain his grip on sweat-soaked skin that slipped constantly through his hands, the doctor thoroughly unbothered even despite the crunch of his nose. Only when she managed to almost break free from his grip did the doctor have to stop in the middle of inserting the tube to snap "Hold her still!" and Cal dared to wrap himself around her in a bear hug, pinning her arms to her sides and, surely, worsening some of her more minor wounds but they weren't their worries of the moment.

The woman went limp, and they thought she'd died.

But the doctor didn't even pause, talked Cal through how to check her pulse, and she was alive, had only been granted a slight mercy, had lost consciousness. Didn't wake as they worked for hours that neither of them would ever forget, still holding her down in case she flew awake again as she had the first time, as the doctor finally removed the tube before giving her a shot of morphine, taking the bucket of infection outside to dump it where it wouldn't put the house at risk.

Even asleep, almost overdosed by morphine, the woman looked in pain. Her lips were peeled back, lines deep around her eyes. Her breathing was rapid though, they supposed, that was a good thing - _'It's up to her now,' _the doctor had said as he handed over something for her pain, _'all I did was give her a fighting chance.' _

They spoon soup, stripped down to little more than venison flavored water, down her throat and, when she starts to twitch and gasp of the pain they dose her again.

On the ninth day, she stirs and asks after her horse.


End file.
